Sixth Time's a Charm
by write25
Summary: The five times John took care of Lestrade, and the one time that it was the other way around.


"I'm sorry, John. I didn't know where else to bring him."

"A&E would have been a good start. Lestrade, can you hear me? Shit, Sherlock, get me my bag, the blue one."

"His pulse is around 140, weak, respirations around 18, he's sweating and flushed."

"Thanks. Would you open that package and hand me the needle—excellent. Lestrade, this is going to hurt. And—there we go. Tape, please. What happened?"

"Donovan said he'd called in ill, but that he'd shown up anyway. He was definitely unwell—pallor, shaking, dizziness—he asked me to bring him to you and then fainted in the cab."

"Me? Why the hell—" John murmured, shaking his head. "We'll get him stabilized and go on from there. Lestrade, I'm going to shine a light in your eyes."

"I have to get back to the case—you have my number." And he was gone.

"Sherlock, wait—"

"Let him go—I'll be fine." Lestrade's voice was quiet, but there was definitely color coming back to his face.

"Thank God—look, I'm going to get a few more things to look after you with. You're dehydrated—don't move, and don't even think of sitting up."

"Don't think I could, even if I wanted to."

"What are you doing here? It's three in the morning." John blinked at Lestrade, who was laid out on the couch in the Baker Street flat, a box of tissues in his lap.

"I could say the same for you."

"I live here."

"True."

"You never—"

"Sherlock and I were going through case files, I fell asleep—not sure where he's got to." The DI turned his head, coughing. "God, I feel awful."

"You look pretty rough. Let me get a look at you." John knelt by the head of the couch and pressed his hand to the other's forehead.

"You're not feverish, but you sound miserable. Come upstairs, you can have Sherlock's bed."

"Thank you. I doubt I'd make it home in one piece."

John helped Lestrade to his feet and led him down to hall to Sherlock's room. There was no bed in sight, only sheaves of paper, stacks of books, and a few precariously perched bottles of liquids of various colors.

"On second thought, maybe my bed."'

"Even better."

"Greg, you need to rest."

"But Sherlock—"

"—Will be fine."

"And the shooter—"

"Will be swiftly apprehended by your endlessly competent team. And treated no less harshly for shooting you, I'm sure. Now lie back down, you'll tear your stitches." John stroked Greg's cheek gently, urging the other back against the pillows.

"You worry too much. I've had worse, you know."

"So have I. And I've seen much worse, and I've seen people die of gunshot wounds, and I know that you're going to be alright, but I never do get comfortable seeing the man I love with a bullet in him. So please, try to get some rest."

"But I'm not tired."

"Then lie there and let me hold you before I have a complete adrenaline crash and collapse on the floor. You had the luxury of morphine while I was in that waiting room all day."

John carefully lay down next to Greg on the bed, brushing a kiss against his bandaged and stitched shoulder.

"You'll have to sweet-talk the nurses into letting me stay in your bed when they come 'round."

"It'll be a pleasure."

"Where the hell have you been?"

"How did you get in here?" Greg was propped up on the floor of the bathroom, his head and arm resting against the toilet bowl.

"I have a key to your flat, remember? Have you been drinking since the funeral?"

"'S my fault, John—if he hadn't run from us, then he wouldn't have ended up on that roof."

John knelt beside Greg, one hand placed reassuringly on his back. He kissed the top of his head.

"And I'm the one who left him alone—Greg, there's only one person responsible for all this, and it's not you, it's not me, it's not Sherlock or Donovan or Anderson—it's Moriarty. No one else."

Greg nodded, groaning and squeezing his eyes closed.

"Are you going to be sick again?"

He shook his head.

"Let's get you to bed."

"I might be sick if I have to move."

"Alright then—I'll go get a blanket and you can sleep here."

"Don't go—please."

John tugged their towels off of the rack and laid them over Greg's body, gently positioning himself around the other man and holding him close.

"Close your eyes—I'm coming in."

"Okay."

John sat of the edge of their bed and laid a damp washcloth over Greg's eyes.

"I texted Anderson from your phone and told him to give Sherlock ten whole minutes with the body. That should buy you at least a half hour."

"I'd be willing to let him use Anderson for target practice if it'd get him to stop playing that violin for thirty minutes."

"I'm sorry that he's such a child sometimes."

"Comes with the territory."

John lightly pressed his lips to Greg's forehead, as if a kiss could convey some sort of pain relief.

"Are your migraines usually this bad?"

"They've been worse since I moved in, but I don't mind being incapacitated every so often."

"That's silly."

"But I get to spend all day with you. That never happens otherwise."

"John? Are you alright?"

"Hardly. The flu's going around, I swear we saw twice as many patients today, we're already booked through for tomorrow, Sherlock's off the walls without a case, we should have sent out invitations a week ago, Mrs. Hudson's been trying to get us to taste wedding cakes but you and I are never home at the same time, I'm exhausted and I miss you."

Greg lay down on the bed next to John and pressed a kiss to the curve of his neck, wrapping one arm around his waist. "It'll be alright—just relax."

"But everything—"

"We'll deal with it all later. Rest now. I've got you."

"You always have."


End file.
